


The Silken Silence

by Straumoy



Series: Power Girl Short Stories [5]
Category: Power Girl (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Gen, POV First Person, noir, superhero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straumoy/pseuds/Straumoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of 9/11 Power Girl struggles to cope with her failure. Trying to overcome her trauma, she finds herself on Long Island when a gunshot catches her attention. What she finds as she investigates will have a massive impact on her life for years to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silken Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Another writing prompt from Reddit. The theme this time around was Noir Superheroes. Not sure if I've managed to get it right, plus experimenting with 1st person narrative felt... icky. Still, here it is. Hope you like it.

I don't want to be here, but I should, you know – try and keep on doing the right thing. This is what it means to be a hero, I remind myself. You've got to step up and keep on trucking where others would have stumbled or flat out quit. Never really signed up for team quitters, or so I like to tell myself though lately I've been having second thoughts.

Perhaps that's why I found myself lingering in mid-air, 500 feet up, just west of Brookhaven Airport. Stars above, I feel like I'm back at college; shy and scared like a puppy, hesitant to even take a breath of air. Heavy, I feel heavy like there's molten lead in my veins, the emotional tug of war is tearing and straining my heart. It hurts, it hurts so bad I feel like just quitting, stop flying and let gravity slam me into the ground. Heck, it might even knock some sense into me.

Behind and below me I can hear another airplane pulling itself into position on the runway, ready for take-off. This is the 4th one I've listen to, the high shrieks of the engines drown out the sound of the construction workers over at Ground Zero. My ears tingle with the white noise of silence as the plane flies away, the pilot reported me in no doubt.

If I don't move soon the air force might send a jet or something to see what is going on, why I hang in the air at the same spot for hours on end. Some general might be kicked out of bed; they have my files, audio logs of me crying in therapy. Can't blame them for being on the edge; first massive attack on US soil since World War II, the rather lousy sequel to World War I – and now an overpowered alien is depressed.

In the end I thought I was ready, but it's apparent that I'm not. Easing up on my levitation, I feel gravity wrap its strong fingers around my legs and waist before it starts pulling me down at a steady rate. At least I'm making progress I remind myself while the air rustles past my ears, pulling at my cape and making a total mess out of my hair. It wasn't that long ago since I got the shakes and cold sweat as soon as I crossed over from South to North Carolina, so yeah I'm doing pretty well.

Finding my stashed away bag with civilian clothes in the middle of Suffolk County Park as the orange red sun bleeds out over the horizon isn't all that easy, though practice makes perfect and I've had 20 some years doing this. For simplicity sake I keep on the white suit, though it gets hidden under a pair of dark blue jeans, purple turtle neck sweater and an egg white knee long coat.

My blue boots stay on, they don't draw attention to themselves when I fold my jeans over them. They're comfortable and I have a long walk ahead of myself. Gloves, cape and belt goes into the shoulder bag, ear plugs gets connected to my mini disc player and bam; I look rather smashing. At least according to my own fashion sense.

Stumbling out of the bushes after the root of a tree decided to give my left foot a handshake, I grumble to myself before straighten myself and my composure as I start trekking down Gerard Road. Sniffing the air a little I try to make an educated guess on what the temperature is.

It's a silly little game I play with myself on occasion since I can't really tell what it is like due to my invulnerability. Bonus points for having something to talk about should I run into someone that wishes to do small talk, which again helps keeping my civilian persona intact.

Fumbling around away in my shoulder bag, I bring up the player and after wringing a little cooperation out of the menu, soothing piano tunes tickle down into my ears. I focus my hearing inwards, trying to block out any background noise, especially the sound of Ground Zero.

Super hearing does have its downsides, but the quiet scares me more since it screams the truth, a truth I've yet to come to terms with. The pianist rapidly taps on the higher notes before her gentle fingers dances downwards in a graceful spiral

A sound stabs through my earbuds and jerk my attention forward, down the road. It’s a sound I’m all too familiar with on this side of the Atlantic; gunshot. It didn’t have the sharp sting that a handgun spits out, more like snappy rumble that came as quickly as it left. I’d guess shotgun of some sort, those are rarely good news.

Kicking into a sprint, the asphalt cracks under my feet and I shoot out of my coat like an arrow, shredding it. Discarding the shreds, I fish out my cape and swing it over my head as I take a larger leap, kicking into the air as soon as my foot touches the ground.

Airborne, I tear off my jeans as both the fabric and seams protest to my clawing fingers. My eyes scan the ground below and in front of me, trying to find the source of the shotgun blast while I put on one glove with the other stuck between my teeth.

I can do this, hopefully just a dumb miss fire. Even if someone is hurt it’s not that big of a deal. Stop the bleeding, call an ambulance and stick around until the paramedics arrive – alternatively just give the victim a free ride to the nearest hospital. Nothing to worry about, alright? So get to it Kara, just go out there and… you know, save the day.

Diving down to the neighborhood where I’d guess the shooting took place, I look from one house to the next for anything out of place. Straining my hearing I don’t hear worried voices or anyone talking to a 911 operator. Odd, there’s no loud music or anything, just a quiet neighborhood. Is there some big game playing tonight that I don’t know of? Guess this is what I get when I avoid everything New York related for a year and a half; clueless.

Finally I catch something; crying and the smell of gunpowder intermixed with blood. Oh boy, this is not good. Steeling myself I take a sharp breath before I walk over to the house in question in a determined stride. My eyes shift from left to right, trying to spot any curious neighbors that might be trying to sneak a peek at me. I could be walking into a trap. Stars above, don’t be a trap. Not now, not here of all places.

My glove clad fingers coil around the door handle and I swing the door open, parts of the wooden doorframe spitting out splinters as my push pries the lock out of it. The wooden floor creak and groan underneath my boots and I gently give myself a faint levitation nudge, easing my weight.

The smell is getting stronger, like a repulsive smog while the sounds of someone crying grows stronger. It’s not the mindless wailing you’d often see adults vomit out whenever they crack, these are muffled cries of someone holding back the tide of tears. A sound I’m not overly comfortable with, the sound of a crying child.

He must have heard me coming crashing through the front door as he pops his head out from the door down the hallway. Face red as a lobster, thick brown hair, sesame street pyjamas and round cheeks stained with tears. Toddlers, more mobile than their younger counterpart the infant, yet far more inconsistent than the older model, the teenager.

Guess he knows me from TV or something, because here he comes running over as fast as his naked little feet can carry him. The dark brown eyes are moist with tears behind his thick glasses and the sight of an adult, even an alien one, made him shift gears into turbo wailing mode. I squat down on one knee and take him into my arms, his tiny hand digs into my cape, tugging it and he cries enough to make his face turn even redder.

I shush at him soothingly, rocking him back and forth for a while before I scoop him up, folding one arm underneath him for him to sit on. Putting my free hand on the back of his tiny little head, I backtrack a little as I gently push his face into my shoulder, shielding him from whatever he’d seen inside the other room.

The kitchen is nice, warm soft colors and far more tidy than mine. Toddler drawings are stuck on the fridge with little magnets that look like cupcakes and pies. I put him down on the kitchen counter so we’re level headed and I look into his eyes. He’s hurting inside, I can tell. Smiling I stroke his hair, fixing it a little so that he doesn’t look like a mad scientist from Cartoon Network.

“Hey there little fella.” I start. “What’s wrong?”

“Mommies hurt.” He sniffs back, finally cried enough to talk.

“Okay.” I nod, slowly, exaggerating. “What’s your name?”

“Douglas.” He runs the full length of his forearm underneath his nose, staining the pyjamas with snot.

“Tell you what Douglas.” I tell him cheerfully. “I’ll go check on mommy and see if I can help her. In the meantime, you wait right here, okay?”

“Okay.” Douglas nods, his lips curled downwards to hold back his tears.

Oh boy… this is not good. Judging by the smell of blood, mommy isn’t hurt. Chances are she’s dead as in dead before I even got suited up. Retracing my tracks back to the room where Douglas had come from, I find mommy on the bathroom floor. Dead, just as I expected, with the shotgun right beside her. Shot herself in the face, not really a pretty sight even if you’re not a stranger to such a scene. Not much for me to do, other than calling it in.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks me shortly after we connect.

“Yeah, I’d like to report a suicide…” The words slip out of my mouth like fat slugs, their slime leaving a sticky aftertaste in my mouth.

 

* * *

 

Police arrive after a few minutes, the Suffolk County Police Department isn’t that far away from where it happened. As they do their thing documenting the scene, I leisurely stroll around in the house, mindful not to touch anything or stray too far away from the police. I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all. The glances that they cast out from the corner of their eyes, how they stop for just a small second doing whatever before resuming as I pass by.

One of the paramedics stink of tobacco, heavy smoker I’d say. At least 20 cigs a day, if not more. She hides her eyes underneath the shade of her cap, adjusting it a little with her fingers as our eyes meet. Usually they wouldn’t be all that different, just more in awe or star struck rather than judging and tasting like contempt. I miss the old days, I really do.

A wall in the living room shows pictures, diplomas and a few amateur water colour paintings. I see mommy, raven black hair kept almost as short as a buzz cut with grey eyes, smiling at the camera. She’s pregnant, 6 months or so on the way, hard to tell with the angle and her wine red sweater. In another one she’s posing together with her little family; baby Douglas with his tiny hospital hat on his head and proud daddy in the background, offering his finger for Douglas to play with. Guess daddy must be working late, or maybe he’s out of town?

“Excuse me, Power Girl?” A voice calls from behind me.

An officer of the law, short with a face covered in freckles and fluffy, ginger hair. His eyes doesn’t strike me down with resentment, so that’s something. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he actually has some admiration for me. That’s new, considering the time and place we’re at, but hey, I’m not complaining.

“Yes, what can I do for you officer?” I ask him, polite if not formal.

“Just a few quick questions, ma’am. It was you that forced the front door open?” He asks me, his eyes working hard not to inadvertently dart downwards to my chest.

“Yes, I heard the shot from down Gerard Road and arrived as soon as I could.” I answer, formal and professionally. Can’t say I’m in the flirty corner.

“You didn’t get any response from the residence?” The officer carries on with his questioning.

“I didn’t ring the bell, nor knock on the door.” I reply, no need to hide anything at this point. “I knew the sound came from a shotgun and the smell of blood suggested a serious injury.”

We dance back and forth like this in the verbal waltz known as questioning. It’s all business, no fun or games. Not that I mind, I’ll take serious business talk any day over talk smeared over with prejudice, even if my conversation partner steals a quick glance at my cleavage every two times he looks up from his notebook. I’ve stopped caring a long time ago; they’re there, they’re large and there’s a chest window in my suit putting them on display. Human society can get hung up on the weirdest things.

He thanks me for my time and goes back to his business, leaving me alone in the living room. One of the diplomas hanging on the wall catches my eye and I see a name; Bobby Sutherland. That rings a faint, distant bell in my mind. I’ve seen it before, but where?

“She can’t be all bad.” One office says to a co-worker.

“She comes the closest.” The co-worker snorts back.

Their voices are shushed and normally one would not pick up such things given the hustle and bustle in the house. Like I said, super hearing sucks. The rustling of paper being flipped outside catches my attention as I try to divert my hearing away from inside the house.

“I’m telling ya, she always have a very smooth explanation ready.” The detective grumbles before he flicks a finger at the paper with a snap.

The officer who questioned me steps up to my defense, retorting: “What do you want her to do? Learn how to stutter on command?”

I shrug and figure I should take my leave when I see another photo hanging in the hallway. It’s another one of Mr Sutherland, he’s at his office and looking out the window behind him, the puzzle pieces click together in the back of my mind. I don’t like it when bad puzzles resolve themselves so neatly. I really, really don’t.

Bobby Sutherland worked at the World Trade Center. He… didn’t make it. Looking down towards the front door I see a small table with a delicate little tablecloth on it, holding a telephone answering machine. A small angel statue stands by its side, the play and rewind buttons have markings on them as if someone have pressed them over and over again.

I’ve got to get out of here. Hyperventilating here and now is not an option. The floor underneath me groans as I lose my emotional calm to keep me light on the ground. Deep breath Kara, hold it, walk straight out the darn door and fly away. Then go supersonic, okay? Okay. One, two and thr…

A tug, small and weak at the lower half of my cape makes me stop dead in my tracks. I snap out of my train of thoughts, even the build up to my panic attack has been put on pause like some old VHS tape. Looking down over my shoulder, I see little Douglas still in his pyjamas looking up at me. He has this serious frown on his round, puffy face. Seriously? I’m getting evaluated by a toddler as if I was on some sort of job interview?

“Are yuu gonna be my mommies now?” He asks me, sounding serious and puzzled at the same time.

“I… uh.” I swallow, darting my eyes around looking for someone to throw me a towel, heck I’ll take a pick-up truck at this point.

Something creaks, cracks and break inside me. Kind of like on those Natural Geographic shows from the artic, where you’re under water and you see ice getting strained until it shatters. I have a mixture of all sorts of feelings bubbling and brewing in my chest. It feels like all the kettles and pots that holds all manners of emotions have decided to boil over all at once and I’m the chef in training, fanatically trying to keep calm and…

I spin on my heel and dive down on one knee hard enough to punch through the wood, folding my arms around tiny Douglas’ shoulders, hugging him close. I’m emotional, no I’m a mess. You’re not supposed to touch, let alone hold humans when you’re emotional Kara. You know that, especially children. Stars and stone Kara, you’re the worst; hiding into a toddlers shoulder to wipe away your own tears.

Him, I’ll pin my hopes and redemption on him. I make up my mind as the police officers take notice and start flocking around me. I’ve failed the world, I hate myself for it and the world hates me back. I’ll make it right, I’ll do right by this boy – raise him to be a fine young man. If I can do that, if I can keep one, just one human safe from cradle to grave, I can forgive myself.


End file.
